Excuse me while I kiss the sky
Excuse me while I kiss the sky
We sit on the bench watching a young couple in love. The sun shines. The leaves are falling.
We eat apples agreeing what a good life we all have...
'What is your favourite season?' I ask him.
'All of them' he replies.
'Well. In the summer I think it's a summer. In the autumn I think how much I like autumn. And the winter with spring are just as good.'
'Wow.' I am amazed. Is he from the Yellow World?
'Are you writing about me?' he asks. 'If so, I want 50% of all profits from book sales and swimming rights to your pool in California.'
He makes me laugh...
- Only being able to relate to our own selfish needs.
- Having sense of self.
My friend, an elderly man, says to me today:
'I have met a lot of people in my life, Briga. But you are different.'
An hour later, I meet someone who invites me to drop in my CV for the Clerk position that will soon be available in the General Post Office of Cork. This happens on International Post Office Day, 9th of October, believe it or not...
The one who hit my car breaks the news the same evening. He is staying for one more contract in 'our city', as he calls Cork...
I feel my Soul is taking off... for a flight...
by Albert Espinosa
And a Bible, 'You Can Heal Your Life', by Louise L. Hay, if you choose to go an extra mile
I recommend to you all.
Colour to the Soul
There are people in our lives who eventually turn into concepts ingrained in our core. Their lives apart from us blend into our soul and add another shade to our identity. Their history is ever-present in the way we look at things, like a one-off colour in our sentiment. They saturate our perception. And there is no past tense for this.
- To be longing for place you have never been before.
I look at him and see his mind is seriously racing. I see his eyes are blind to anything that's happening around him - the flowers that smile on a table, what is for dinner and who on earth am I. His head is too preoccupied. He tells me later: 'It's all computer stuff, Hon'.
I watch him move in pre-calculated trajectory: from the desk to a book shelf to a kitchen tap for a glass of water and back. He spends hours looking at the glowing screen, leaving the rest of the world on stand-by...
He eats two packets of chewing gum a day. He says it helps him to concentrate. I nod, thinking about myself this time. When I write for children, I eat a bag of gummy bears, so I understand him.
I see he has a wrinkle on his forehead. The one which indicates a worried head. Full to the brim with digit-letter combination, so I guess. They change and change and change, he says.
I look at him and feel he streams consciousness so differently. Fascinating, yet unfamiliar to me. When he is working, the galaxy we share does not exist...
'Is that what so-called nerd men are like?' I share my experience with Oscar as we walk the river bank enjoying the last outdoor ice-cream, most likely.
'Yes' he says. I'm not surprised.
'We all have a passion for Wanderlust. you must keep this in mind.'
'Hmm. Then maybe I should get a cat?' I cry
Perhaps Madam is right - if I wouldn't have been a writer in this lifetime, I would have been a counsellor. Sometimes I think we swapped professions. I have a sense that you, my dearest Yellow, were a writer in a previous life.
I often sink these days in the understanding of Soul's purity...
- To believe something unreal to exist or be so.
- 1 Cor 13:7
On the stairs of St Mary's Dominican Church, the angels asked me to write a story for the little ones...
In between the world's two poles, happens to live a girl with a peculiar name, May. In the East, she was a picker of amber. Those semi-precious warming stones that later turned into yellow beaded necklaces for New Age parents to buy their little children. To protect them from someone's bad eye and a tooth pain. May also made the pictures; with the smallest pieces of amber she decorated the holy crowns of Mary and baby Jesus. The elderly ladies bought those pictures on their way to church. Purring with delight, they blessed the child of heavens, who they called May. Tiny was the village where May lived. Year after year, the sea became emptier from amber. Fishes ate the beautiful stones, which turn them into gold. May packed the memories of amber's warmth, headed off South - to a big city - and let her hair grow...
Every day she rode a bicycle picking up words that people generously left behind them as they walked. At home, she scrupulously put them together, creating shimmering speeches for those who find themselves at intimate places and short of words. Words, that they have lost walking busy roads of a big city, with very little trees and flowers. With little sense for amber's warmth.
One sunny morning, beside a river, May met a sad dog. She stroke him gently on the ears and asked:
'Hey, can you smell beautiful words?'
It was an ordinary looking dog, grey with bleached brown eyes.
'I'm old' he said to May. 'All my life I've carried slippers from the hallway to the living room and back. And a newspaper for my master to read each day. Until the day he passed away. Soon after, new people came along. They brought two young howlers of their own, who didn't like me much, as I didn't want to play no more. I had to leave...', he cried.
'What is your name?' May asked this tired dog.
'William', he answered proudly.
'My dear William. How about you come with me? Not too far from here I have a cosy home. I'll give you a cup of tea, glasses and a newspaper you can read until the Moon comes high. After dinner, we'll walk up the hill to pick special words which shine in the silence of the night. No matter how old you say you are, you'll see them well, I promise. We'll put them into a yellow woolly hat. I'll show you what I do with them when we come back.'
'Okay' said William as they started to walk. 'What kind of tea do you have at home?'...
As they climbed to the top of the hill, the Moon was beginning to sing lullabies for those asleep down in the city. And at the end of every song, it sprinkled the words of each verse all over the indigo sky. Shining just like the stars, the worlds were floating down. Patiently, as snowflakes in winter... For those who were looking for them, to catch and mix with ones they already have.
'To create their own lullabies?' William sniffed the game of the Moon's Words.
'Yes. And to spread them around', May smiled in return. 'You are indeed wise.'
'I read a lot of newspapers' said William, as May picked two words out of a yellow woolly hat, which was already full. She placed LOVE and YOU into William's eyes as he lay on her lap.
May jogged down the hill after William, who carried a yellow woolly hat feeling reborn...
- A brief love affair.
(by E. E. Cummings)
Lady, I will touch you
with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile
(lady I will
touch you with my mind.) Touch
you, that is all,
lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite care
the poem which I do not write
Recollection of Purity
'He is not good looking'
'Your beauty is enough for you both' (she is smart)
'He wants to know why I weep, though'
'He is reaching for your Soul'
'Only in the beginning, you should know this by now'
'Ah. Perhaps it's more convenient to me when it is raining'
'Your favourite Gothic clichés. The sadness they contain...'
'I like my sadness'
'You are a little delusional about its importance'
For a moment neither of us moves.
'Will you ever grow up?'
'I have. I just have deep attachments to the twilight zones'
'Why don't you let Love add a florescent touch to them?'
'Because when I think of Love, I think of nothing but diamonds'
I watch her laugh.
'Your beauty is immense'
'That is what he says too'
'Do you believe him?'
'Of course. I believe anyone, you know me'
'You're twisting the chapter again'
'I'm a writer. I am telling lies which sounds like truth. And vice versa, sure'
'Are you living the truth?'
'As far as I know'
'So let me ask you again - is he a good looking man to you?'
'Yes. I am glad he hit my car'
We watch pigeons gathering in thousands.
'You know how I feel?'
'I feel like I am losing the sense of 'should''
'That's good. Keep an eye on your art. It will change the altitude'
- Astonishing, capable of inspire wonder.
- A very powerful, overwhelming, under-used word.
I feel everything at once.
I feel nothing at all.
I don't know what's worse:
Drowning beneath the waves
or dying from thirst.
When we compare things, we judge their value.
We say yellow is better than blue,
a smile is better than tears.
We choose the Sun over the Moon...
But then, imagine the sea and the sky to be yellow,
or a smile come instead of a crystal tear when
for the first time a little baby says 'Mamma, I love you'.
You'll never know what tranquillity is, if not for the Moon...
Let everything shine equally bright.
Allow everything carry its magical purpose.
Master the art of No Comparing,
and there will never be a need to start over again,
in a different time, at a different place...
-Johann ML Brown
Why leaves change colour in autumn
Before winter, not only animals begin to stock up reserves. Plants start to prepare their food supplies also. Full of nitrogen, the green pigment of leaves - chlorophyll, which gives all flora a hand in using the energy of the sun to produce sugar (through process of photosynthesis), in the autumn spreads across the multiple parts of the plant where it becomes stored.
Along with this process becomes clear that the plants have orange and yellow coloured pigments as well (carotene and xanthophyll). Plants have multicoloured pigments all the time, even that during the spring and summer seasons they are filled with chlorophyll. All three pigments take part in the process of photosynthesis.
Why do leaves fall after they change colour? During the process of colour change, between the base of a leaf and its branch, a thin layer of cork is produced. These layers close all passages to block entrance for parasites and other agents of sickness. When these layers are formed, a little breeze is enough to separate a leaf from its branch...
(...testing my translations means.)
- Free from guilt or sin.
Just in case no one told you today...
You are good enough.
What you do matters.
'Can you believe this? This is Me talking, the one who is fascinated by the Art of Acting!'. I laughed psychotically to a friend on Skype. 'I knew it! I felt the snake of Shame wandering somewhere within me, I just couldn't find exactly where it hides!' It's been banned from my faith, from the classrooms where I have spent a lot of time, from my wardrobe, even from out of the bedroom. Forever - with no mercy - from my pages. The snake became weak with no support from her cousin, Guilt, with whom I am under extremely strict terms. Guilt couldn't bare it. Told me to feck off and left. At least that is what I think. Or maybe it's still there somewhere, but I just haven't seen it or felt it around for a while. Shame is stronger in it's nature, I'd say. But then again, we are all different and the weight that we each carry shouldn't be compared.
'I'd say it's pretty much the same thing, though. A not being good enough thing', said my friend.
It could relate, I agree. But still, it is not the same. I will try to clarify this distinction, as I think it is important and useful, so please, concentrate:
Guilt and Shame. The two bitches. The insidious robbers of our happiness, freedom and peace of mind.
The environment of both is a feeling of being 'not good enough', that is the truth.
Although Guilt and Shame sometimes goes hand in hand, they refer to different experiences. The same action, whatever it may be, can give rise to feelings of both Guilt and Shame. Where Guilt involves an awareness that our actions have injured someone, Shame reflects how we feel about ourselves. Guilt is tied to belief about what is right and wrong, moral and immoral. It's an awareness of having done something wrong, even if that only occurs in fantasy! Shame may result from the awareness of Guilt, but specifically it's a painful feeling about how we appear to others (and to ourselves) and doesn't necessarily depend on our having done anything. Shame is very personal, deeply connected to our sense of who we are. It emphasizes what is wrong with ourselves.
Guilt: I am sorry. I made a mistake.
Shame: I am sorry. I am a mistake.
In other words - Guilt is related to what you have done to yourself or others. Shame is related to what has been done to you by others.
How does this relate directly to the feeling of being 'not good enough'? Guilt is an awareness of failure against a standard (cultural, social, etc.). Shame is a sense of failure before the eyes of someone. Have a think which is more significant for you.
Shame reflects early psychological damage which impedes growth, psychologist say. The capacity to feel Guilt depends upon that psychological growth, and can be seen as emotional progress. They say as well that Guilt is often passing.
What is the most annoying and pretty common thing about Guilt - is that unconscious 'I owe you' punishment. When we feel guilty, we attract punishment from the world and we also create it for ourselves. Thanks to the Catholic Church, some of us never feel as though we've been sufficiently punished. We ourselves determine an appropriate degree of punishment, and we usually overdo it. Tip: A simple way to break this cycle is to either decide you have been punished enough or simply let go of wanting to punish yourself for this deed or thought.
I, personally, believe that Guilt is a perspective taking.
Shame is linked to personal distress. Shame is an embarrassment, humiliation, feeling of low value and powerlessness. It is grief related feeling, which refers to every emotion from apathy to pride (secrecy, silence, judgement, narcissistic and eating disorders, envy, infidelity, depression, substance abuse and bullying. Violence, aggression and suicide.)
Tip would be this reference:
'Putting shame into words with a trusted companion enables one to step outside it - it no longer seems to permeate one's entire being and allows some self-forgiveness to emerge.' (Karen 1992)
I know, heavy stuff. Pure distraction from the story! But it's a true story, if it's the Truth in the stories that you happen to like, hehe.
In the end, I am given an idea of how to deal with this type of Shame - 'the ridiculous' kind. It's the mildest form you can get, I believe. Thanks to my basic knowledge of Psychology - I know where it is coming from. Since very early years we adopt the opinions and reactions of our parents, as our own. In case you didn't know...
Anyway. I recorded my goblin's voice thinking of how much I love children. It's not great, but I've done it and feel very proud.
A few days later, I submit one of my 'early days' stories to UCC radio, asking the guys, 'If it gets selected, would it be okay if I broadcast it myself?'
They said 'Grand'.
-Dr. Wayne Dyer
It all started so innocently, as it always does.
At my last workplace, many times I was complimented for my voice. 'It is the most pleasant voice I have heard on the phone' said a young lady to me. 'What a lovely voice God has given you, pet'. The older ladies always loved me the most. 'It sounds like she cares' said a long-time client to one of my solicitors. Because I do care, I thought to myself. But today's story is not in there.
At first, I didn't pay much attention to these compliments of such an unexpected nature, even though it was always nice to hear them. But when my contract started to come to an end, I began to brainstorm what I was going to do next, where I would work. I started to think about more alternative ways to earn a living. And so those 'nice-voice' compliments came into my conscious awareness. I remembered how my colleagues, the writers, would give me same praise all the time after I read at our literary gatherings. ''Ah, and the way you say 'lustrous'...'. One commented in delight. I always watch the other as I read, his eyes closed the whole time...
After I managed to silence my rational mind (which calls on me to not waste my time and to start looking for a job in an office as soon as I can) I took Oscar to a quiet corner of a cafe and pulling his jumper sleeve, leant closer to say 'I am willing to try'. It was a Voice-Over Artist game this time. 'How do I do that?', I asked. Oscar knows all the answers to the creative technical side of the games that happen online. He didn't seem to be very surprised by this new idea of mine, I bet I wreck his head all the time. He explained to me how it's done and how people make money from it. The very same evening I jogged home with a borrowed microphone...
Of course I was a little surprised to hear how my recorded voice sounds. It does sound different*. Besides, I realise that after fifteen years in Ireland my accent* is still pretty strong. 'Well, if I'd listened to Dostoevsky, I'd have preferred the e-book being recorded by someone who knows the author's native language' said Oscar. I smiled, understanding that in some cases your accent can be an advantage, not necessarily a down point.
So I recorded a few different voice versions of the texts which thought I'd be able to cover - a voice mail, a spiritual teaching, a tour guide and Chocolate ad. I recognised the need to practice, but I can do it - so all is grand. Until... it comes to dialog...
And that's what story is all about.
So once it comes to dialog, I hit a full stop. I am out of my comfort zone big time. Why? Well. I think it's ridiculous. It even goes as far as a feeling of being slightly stupid, according to my rational mind. The creative side tells me that, what is ridiculous here - is to listen to the rational mind. But I feel what I feel, and I want to know the reason why.
In the meantime, Oscar comes around with a proposal.
'I need somebody to record one of my stories', he says. He thinks I could do a goblin's voice.
Here it comes.
I'm like - ''A 'What? Are you serious?''
'Why not?' he asks.
'Because I am embarrassed, that's why!'
'What exactly you are embarrassed about? he persists, 'That you won't be able to do the best job?'
'No. I think it's ridiculous! Briga Saulė - a goblin? No Thanks!'
'It's a Children's Story, for Halloween'. Oscar makes a point.
What a shame. I just hum...
*We hear our own voice two tones lower than others hear us.
*I understood that if you want to soften your accent, you must speak with better-formed language. More grammar aware, so to speak.
I must start speaking the same as I write...